


Kitchen Wizardry

by Bryonia_Alba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 03:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10630782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bryonia_Alba/pseuds/Bryonia_Alba
Summary: Neville prepares a special birthday dinner for his Gran. Harry "assists".





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for contrarywise for the Neville Ficathon 2005.

“Gran’s birthday is coming up soon,” Neville said one sunny morning over breakfast. Struggling over the calculations, he added, “She’ll be…eighty-five.”

Harry poured a second cup of tea. “I suppose we could go to Diagon Alley this weekend and find a present for her,” he said, stirring in a spoonful of honey. “Are you absolutely certain she doesn’t want that hideous vulture on her hat replaced?”

Neville was shaking his head even before Harry finished the question. “I want to do something nice for her, Harry. Something different. Something _special_ , that she won’t ever expect.”

“I guess this means no plants then, either.”

“She’s received enough of those from me in the past,” Neville reached for the salt. “I want to surprise her.”

“What sort of surprise did you have in mind?” Harry asked, biting into his toast.

“I–I wanted–I thought…’’ Neville paused, feeling his cheeks redden. “I thought it might be nice if we invited her over for a birthday dinner.” Harry’s fork hovered in mid-air and Neville plunged ahead breathlessly. “We could bring out the good china and tableware; use fresh flowers as a centrepiece, the whole works. I’ve never prepared a fancy meal for Gran before. I–I think she’d enjoy that.”

Harry nodded and resumed lifting his fork to his mouth. “You know her tastes and preferences better than I do. If you draw up a menu I ought to be able to handle the rest.”

“Erm…Harry…”

Harry looked up once more from his breakfast, one eyebrow lifted in question. “Yes?”

“You misunderstood me." _I_ was going to make the meal for her.”

Carefully, Harry wiped his lips with his napkin before folding his arms on the table, regarding Neville with thoughtful green eyes. “Neville, do you even know how to cook?” he asked. “Tea and cereal don’t count.”

“No, I don’t.” Neville lowered his gaze to his plate, still filled with the ham and eggs and toast Harry had fixed this morning for him, following his admission. “I never had to before. Gran or Great-Aunt Enid did all of the cooking when I was little, and nobody had to do anything whilst we were students at Hogwarts, because the house-elves did it all; and then when we moved in together you just automatically took over the kitchen. You didn’t seem to mind, so I never said anything.”

“You don’t know how to cook,” Harry said slowly, “yet you want to create some fancy gourmet meal for your Gran? Neville, that’s…”

“Stupid, I know.” He tossed his napkin down on his plate. “Forget I said anything. I’ll think of something else.”

“Neville, wait.” Harry reached across the table, his fingers entwining with Neville’s. “Are you asking me to teach you how to cook?”

“Would you?” Neville looked up at Harry, hope sparking in his dark brown eyes. “I’ve watched you around the kitchen. I think I could learn; if it’s not a problem, of course.”

“You’ve watched me, hmmm?” Harry smiled, giving Neville’s hand a squeeze. “It’s not a problem. I’d be more than happy to teach you.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry soon discovered that teaching Neville how to cook, as in nearly everything else involving his partner, patience was the key. Neville approached the culinary arts much the same as he had in Potions class during their school days. If you left him alone and allowed him to concentrate on the task at hand, he managed quite well. Critiquing Neville’s efforts too harshly, however, usually led to ruinous results.

Fortunately, Harry thought as he assisted Neville in cleaning up one such failed effort, a burnt-out saucepan was much preferred to an exploding cauldron, without any of the potentially catastrophic ramifications. Nobody, to Harry’s knowledge, had ever been poisoned from or died of overcooked meats, mushy vegetables, or lumpy gravies.

He also had to admit that there was something endearing about watching as Neville moved about the kitchen, carefully measuring ingredients into a bowl with eyes narrowed in concentration, his lower lip tucked between his teeth. The sight of Neville stirring a saucepan or mincing herbs held their own undeniable charms. Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Harry also had to admit that watching Neville as he bent to pull a pan of muffins from the oven was more than a little arousing.

Neville persevered as the days and weeks passed, demonstrating the same stubborn tenacity he’d shown while in the DA. Gradually, his efforts improved, with increasingly edible results.

“I don’t think you need my help any more,” Harry said one evening about a month later. Neville had prepared a simple pasta dish that night, featuring roasted garlic and tomatoes, tossed with fresh mozzarella cheese and finely chopped basil from Neville’s herb garden. Everything had turned out deliciously, the rich gooeyness of the cheese blending harmoniously with the slow-roasted sweetness of the garlic and tomatoes, all bound together by perfect, _al dente_ fettuccine noodles. “I couldn’t have prepared this better myself.”

“Do you really think so?” Neville blushed, twirling his fork around some pasta. “Gran’s birthday is next week. I don’t want to bollix this up, Harry, truly I don’t. What if she ends up in St Mungo’s with ptomaine poisoning or something just as awful? I’d never forgive myself.”

“You haven’t put me in hospital yet,” Harry replied, “and I’ve had to put up with much worse these last couple of weeks. I have every faith in your newfound abilities. Just follow the recipes like I showed you, and you’ll do fine, Neville. Have you given any thought toward a menu for the big day?”

Neville shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant and failing. “Chicken, vegetables, bread, salad and a dessert,” he said. “I’ve already written down the list of ingredients I’ll need.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Gran Longbottom’s birthday fell on a Sunday that year. Unsurprisingly, Mrs Longbottom accepted the dinner invitation Neville and Harry extended to her three days beforehand. Also unsurprisingly, Neville became a bundle of nerves as the momentous occasion drew near.

That Sunday afternoon Harry tried to leave Neville alone as he donned the plain white chef’s apron Harry had bought him specifically for the occasion. He knew Harry was watching, though, finding excuses to peek in every time he passed by the entryway to the kitchen. Neville tried to shrug it off, frowning in fierce concentration as he rinsed the chicken he planned to roast and laid it in the roasting pan. He bit his tongue when he scraped his knuckles while grating the lemon zest, hissed in frustration when he cut his finger while quartering the new red potatoes.

What _had_ he been thinking?

Chewing his bottom lip, he re-read the recipe for the lemon-roasted chicken with herbs before drizzling half of the lemon juice over the chicken and placing the squeezed lemon halves inside the cavity. The rest was added to the potatoes and other vegetables he planned to roast alongside the bird. The herbs were finely minced and sprinkled over the surface, the vegetables spooned in around the bird, and everything shoved into the oven…which he had forgotten to turn on. Muttering words under his breath that would have got his mouth rinsed out with soap had his grandmother been present, Neville yanked the pan from the oven and turned it on, startling when he felt a light tap on his shoulder.

“Harry, I…”

“You’re becoming entirely too worked up. It’s only food, mate,” Harry said, turning him around so he could brush his lips across Neville’s. His hands rested lightly on Neville’s shoulders, kneading gently at the tense muscles he found there as he deepened the kiss, smiling slightly when Neville sighed into his mouth and relaxed slightly.

“You shouldn’t distract me like that,” Neville said when they parted. “Bad things happen, you know that.”

“I was only following orders,” Harry replied, nuzzling Neville’s throat. One hand drifted down across the chef’s apron. “See?”

Neville looked down, startled into a laugh when he saw that the front of the apron now read KISS THE COOK in tall, flashing red letters. That must have happened when Harry had tapped his shoulder, presumably with his wand. “Harry, really, you shouldn’t…” He caught his breath when Harry’s teeth closed around his earlobe, sucking gently at the loose skin. “The chicken…I think the oven’s preheated now…”

“Right, mustn’t forget that,” Harry said, standing back so that Neville could return the roasting pan to the oven. Neville yelped when Harry’s hand rubbed along the curve of his arse and squeezed. The moment the oven door was closed Harry’s hands were on him, tugging him back around, and his mouth descended on Neville’s in a deep, languorous kiss, his tongue sliding along Neville’s.

He barely noticed as Harry backed him against the countertop, aware only of Harry’s hands as they slid beneath the apron to undo Neville’s trousers and then his own with nimble fingers, reaching in and grasping Neville’s half-erect cock and stroking with a firm yet gentle grip, his thumb sliding along the underside vein.

Harry kissed him again when he tried to protest. There were still salad greens to rinse and tear, the table to set, the flowers for the centrepiece still needed to be cut and put into a vase…

“Neville, you worry too much. There’s plenty of time still for all that.” Harry drew back, grinning wickedly before kneeling gracefully in front of him. His head disappeared beneath the chef’s apron (still flashing the directive KISS THE COOK), and a moment later Neville groaned, feeling Harry’s tongue licking across the head of his cock before engulfing him entirely. Thrusting his hips forward, he let his head fall back, eyes squinching shut. Harry’s mouth was a wet vice, sliding up and down along his length, his tongue fluttering. Neville’s hands found Harry’s head, his fingers threading through unruly black hair to hold him in place, gasping when Harry’s fingers slid along his perineum, and then further back until one finger pressed against the pucker there and Neville instinctively relaxed.

Harry released Neville just long enough to whisper the necessary spell before wrapping his lips once more around Neville’s cock, increasing the suction even as his spell-slickened finger probed Neville’s arsehole, sliding in easily before being joined by a second digit. Neville tightened his grip on Harry’s hair, his hips thrusting forward against the wet heaven of Harry’s mouth, and then rocking back against the back-and-forth motion of Harry’s fingers in his arse. Every movement sent sparks dancing along Neville’s nerves, tingling along his skin. Patterns of light and colour swirled past his tightly closed eyelids, pulsing in ever-quickening flashes. Heat pooled deep within his belly, swirling and eddying like the flashes behind his eyes, flashing white hot when Harry’s fingers crooked over his prostate and he came. He felt Harry’s mouth working around his cock, swallowing the first spurt as it spilled down his throat, his fingers still sliding and stroking and scissoring inside of him. One hand held him steady as Neville’s hips bucked uncontrollably, spasms of pleasure surging along each nerve ending, until he slumped back against the countertop, breathing hard.

Harry licked his lips and smiled up at him before rising to his feet and kissing Neville gently. Neville tasted his own come, salty and slightly herbal-tasting on his lips.

“Everything’s going to be just fine,” Harry said, resting his forehead against Neville’s. “Why don’t you let me rinse the greens while you pick the nasturtium petals for the salad?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“The meal was lovely, dear boy,” Mrs Longbottom said later that evening, settling back in her chair with a sigh of repletion. Neville stood, gathering the empty parfait glasses used to serve the chocolate-raspberry mousse he’d made. “You’ve outdone yourself, Harry.”

“You’re crediting the wrong person, Mrs Longbottom,” Harry said, folding his napkin. “Your grandson was responsible for tonight’s endeavours.”

Neville ducked his head, focusing on the parfait glasses in his hands. “Happy birthday, Gran.”

“You made this wonderful dinner?” The old woman’s eyes, faded yet still sharp, caught Neville’s own. Slowly, her hand came up to rest on Neville’s cheek. “Your mother was quite the cook as well, you know,” she said quietly. “I’m glad to see that some of her talents rubbed off on her son.”

“I–I didn’t know, actually,” Neville replied, his lips curving into a shyly pleased smile at the unaccustomed praise. “I’m glad you enjoyed the food, Gran.”

She left soon afterward, still complimenting the meal. Once she was gone Neville relaxed against Harry as strong arms encircled his waist. “I told you she’d appreciate it,” Harry said in his ear. “She was right, you know. You outdid yourself tonight.”

“It’s nice to know I can do something right, other than growing things,” Neville answered. “Next year, though, I think I’m going to try to talk her into replacing that vulture. It really is beginning to look rather sorry.”

Harry chuckled, his arms tightening around Neville. “There’s still some of that mousse left. I’d hate to see it go to waste.” The tip of his tongue darted out to lick along the shell of Neville’s ear. “I know just what to do with it, too…”


End file.
